


Five Times Adam du Mortain Eavesdropped, and One Time He Did Something About it

by dweadpiwatemeggers



Series: Emerald and Bronze [4]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Drinking, Eavesdropping, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Slice of Life, Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26863060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweadpiwatemeggers/pseuds/dweadpiwatemeggers
Summary: As described by the title - five times Adam got to know Charlotte through eavesdropping, and one time he did something about it. Spans from Book 1 to well past the Book 3 demo.
Relationships: Female Detective/Adam du Mortain
Series: Emerald and Bronze [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948069
Comments: 68
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

**_The Apartment, Late Evening, One Day after Unit Bravo begins an Around-the-Clock Watch_ **

Adam is standing watch by the window, looking down into the dimly lit parking lot. Morgan is up on the roof of the building, ostensibly keeping watch in the other directions, but probably taking a smoke break. Detective Langford had handed her a key that morning and informed her in no uncertain terms that she could spend as much time on the roof as she liked, but that under no circumstances would she be allowed to smoke in the apartment. On reflection, she’s likely doing both. Morgan may be unorthodox, but she does her job well. Nate and the Detective are playing cards at the little table by the kitchen; Farah had been playing with them, but evidently the game couldn’t keep her attention, as she is now wandering the apartment, looking at everything.

“Who’s the old guy?” the youngest member of Unit Bravo asks. He hears the  _ plink _ of a fingernail against glass, and assumes Farah is tapping a framed photograph. By the question, it’s most likely one of the photographs of the Detective and a man old enough to be her grandfather. There are a few around the room that he noticed during his preliminary inspection.

“A friend,” the Detective responds. There is a quiet  _ tonk, tic, tic, tic _ of rippling cards being pinned to the table, and Nate grumbles. Evidently the game is not going well for him.

“Seems kinda old to be a friend,” Farah says.

“I didn’t realise there was an age limit.” The Detective’s tone is tolerant. He’s noticed it often is with Farah. “I guess that means I’ll have to rethink whether or not we can be friends.”

“ _ WHAT _ ?” Adam flinches as Farah practically screeches the question. He hears her quick steps and a thump - probably her landing on her knees beside the Detective’s chair. “No! I didn’t...aw, c’mon. That’s not fair!”

“I didn’t make the age rule, Farah.” The Detective is sounding a little smug. There is another sound of cards being placed on the table, and Nate tossing his down with a quiet curse. “You did.”

“No I didn’t! I take it back.” Adam turns to see Nate shuffling the deck again. Farah clings to Detective Langford’s arm. The Detective… her light brown eyes are sparkling with mischief as she looks down on Farah, like polished bronze in sunlight. They are… he shakes himself, turns back to the window. Farah continues, “I TAKE IT BACK! Can we be friends now?”

“We’ll see,” the Detective says. Her words are accompanied by the swishing of cards being rearranged in her hand.

“She’s teasing you,” Nate says. Adam assumes that Farah had been pouting enough to warrant the explanation.

“Oh!” The younger vampire seems cheered by the reassurance. Not that Farah ever takes long to bounce back. “So, your friend. Can we meet him? We’ve met your other friends.”

He hears a sharp intake of breath from the Detective, followed by a long exhale. There is a pause before she finally says, “He’s gone.” 

Her voice wobbles. Just a touch. Adam doubts anyone else was listening closely enough to catch it, tries to convince himself the only reason he is listening closely enough to be able to catch it is that the more he knows about her, the better he can do his job.

“Where’d he go?”

“Farah…” Nate sighs their teammate’s name, but there are certain nuances of English, of human behaviour, that are still lost on her.

At the same time, the Detective answers, “Fólkvangr.” 

“Weird name,” Farah says, to a snorted laugh from the Detective. “Where is it?”

“Fólkvangr is a mythological Norse afterlife, for warriors who died in battle.” Nate explains, “I didn’t realise you were…”

Pagan. He tactfully doesn’t say it.  _ A heathen _ , a very old part of Adam’s mind supplies. He shrugs it off. What, if anything, the Detective worships is not his concern. He continues his vigil out the window. So far, the most interesting thing he’s seen has been a squirrel.

“Oh, I’m not. But Lars was Norwegian, and a historian.” There is a fondness in her voice when she speaks. This Lars was evidently very important to her. She chuckles. “He used to say that heaven sounded boring.”

“So who was he fighting?”

Nate sighs again, and Adam can hear him rubbing his forehead. Farah had yet to meet a question that she thought was impolite to ask.

“Cancer.”

Apparently Farah cannot think of a response for that, because it is Nate who speaks next, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Again, there is a sound of cards being placed on the table, as the Detective says, “Thank you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**_The Apartment, Early Evening, Three Days after Unit Bravo begins an Around-the-Clock Watch_ **

Adam has his back to the room, peering out the window through a crack in the blinds. Morgan is up on the roof again. Farah has been sent on a patrol of the surrounding block. She doesn’t handle sitting still well. After three days, it was getting to the point where someone would be on the verge of throwing her out of the window soon.

“I’m not sure if I should be impressed or alarmed at the variety of mystery novels on your shelf, Detective,” Nate comments from just behind him, where he is perusing the bookshelves in the tiny living room.

“Why would you be either?” The Detective is rummaging in the fridge for ingredients for her dinner. Her response is muffled, she must be reaching for something near the back.

“It does display a certain...” Nate pauses, whether it’s because he’s looking over a title, or looking for the right word, it’s hard to say, “single-mindedness.”

“Or an interest dating back to childhood.” She doesn’t dissemble much, Detective Langford. He has heard her deflect, or outright refuse to discuss things, but otherwise she is incredibly straightforward. Direct, even. Adam finds that he...appreciates... that about her. Even when he’s on the receiving end of it. Perhaps especially when he’s on the receiving end of it. There have been very few people in his life with the strength of character to tell him to his face that his attitude needs adjusting.

He turns enough to see Nate look into the kitchen, a broad smile on his face, apparently delighted by the fact that she is apparently willing to have a personal conversation, “Is it?”

The only part of her that’s visible is her hair, piled up on her head in a bun. Her head is below the level of the half-wall between the kitchen and the living space, but her voice is clear. “It is.”

“And do you have a favourite?” Nate walks away from the bookshelf, and sprawls on the couch, arm across the back, legs tucked alongside the coffee table, still looking into the kitchen to continue the conversation.

Her head pops back up over the counter, and somehow she looks just as competent, as focused, out of the blazer and button-down she favours at work and in a soft grey t-shirt and unbuttoned flannel. And he finds that is also...appealing. He shakes his head; tries to focus on their reason for being here. Which is certainly not an analysis of the appeal of Detective Langford.

“Novel, or detective?” she asks, sorting through the ingredients on the counter in front of her.

“Let’s start with a detective.”

“Batman.” 

The response is quick, decisive. And not the answer he had anticipated.

He sees Nate start out of the corner of his eye, just as surprised. “Really?”

She doesn’t look up from her dinner preparations, beginning to dice a potato. “I find Sherlock Holmes insufferable. And Conan Doyle isn’t exactly accessible for young kids. Likewise for Poirot and Agatha Christie. Harriet the Spy was accessible, but she wasn’t really pleasant. And Nancy Drew was a little too…” she frowns a little, knife held in midair over what’s left of the vegetable, “perfect.”

There’s something about the way that she says it that tells him ‘perfect’ is not the word she was looking for. 

“Too perfect?” Nate asks.

She tosses the diced potato into a bowl. “A detective whose flaws are ‘gets involved’ and ‘has to solve the mystery to be satisfied’ doesn’t really have flaws.”

She is not wrong. A flawless protagonist does not make for interesting reading. And those flaws would only help a fictional detective.

Nate is apparently also in agreement. “I suppose that’s fair,” he says. 

“Which leaves us Batman.” She has begun chopping an onion, its pungent scent wafting across the small space. At least the window is open. “Surrounded by beings of significantly superior strength and abilities, and he holds his own almost entirely on his wits and his knowledge of technology.”

Nate chuckles, “A little on the nose, don’t you think?”

Her analytical skills  _ are _ impressive. And the parallels with her current situation are notable.

“Yes, well,” the onions follow the potatoes into a different small bowl, “ten-year-old Charlotte wasn’t exactly envisioning a situation in which she could call herself the Bruce Wayne of the Vampire Justice League.”

“And now that you’ve found yourself in that situation?” 

She looks at Nate, and there is a quirk to her lip, not quite a smile, but something that could become one. Adam is struck by a sudden itch to trace the line of it with his finger, and he turns back to the window, balling his fists behind his back as she says, “I wouldn’t object if the Agency decided to give me a Bat-cave.”


	3. Chapter 3

**_The Apartment, Late Evening, Five Days after Unit Bravo begins an Around-the-Clock Watch_ **

Nate is at the Facility tonight, in discussions with Agent Langford and the medical team regarding their progress at analyzing Char -  _ Detective Langford _ ’s blood. Adam has co-opted the Detective’s desk to read over the reports that Agent Langford sent over. It feels that way, at any rate, although she had specifically removed her laptop from the surface and told him to save his back and use the desk when she realised that he intended to work at the coffee table. He got halfway through pointing out that his back was unlikely to sustain damage when it occurred to him that she was being courteous. He’d had to cut himself off to thank her. Judging from Farah’s smirk, he’d been less than graceful about it. Morgan has taken his usual place by the window, and Farah is alternating between dramatically draping herself over the couch to poke at the Detective and flitting around the room.

They probably should have sent her with Nate.

“Ow!”

He looks up from his work. Farah is sucking on her hand. The Detective’s cat, Timbit, streaks across the room in a black blur and disappears into the kitchen. He shakes his head, turns back to the reports. Farah had been warned about the cat’s temperament. And a scratch is nothing to worry about - she is unlikely to develop septicemia.

He hears the Detective sigh. “I did warn you.”

“More than once,” Morgan adds.

“Why would you choose something that fluffy,” Farah sounds especially put out tonight, as though her persistence in trying to pet the cat over the past several days should have been rewarded by now, “if it doesn’t like to be petted?”

He hears someone get off the couch, the footsteps that follow make it clear that it is the Detective. “I wouldn’t exactly say that I choose him,” she says.

Morgan snorts, “Are you about to give us some, ‘I didn’t choose the cat, the cat chose me.’ shit?”

He hears the Detective’s bark of laughter from the kitchen. He turns to look through the half-wall and she is standing next to the fridge, upon which the creature in question is perched. “No.”

“So,” Farah asks, “if you didn’t choose the cat, and the cat didn’t choose you, how’d you end up with a cat?”

Char- _ Detective Langford _ reaches an arm up to the top of the fridge. Timbit hops down and drapes himself over her shoulders like a malevolent scarf, and she makes her way back to the living room.

“I found him behind the dumpsters out back.” She reaches up to scratch between his ears, smiling softly. She doesn’t smile often. Under the circumstances, it’s not surprising. He feels a twinge of… something. A wish to see more of it. To be the one who made it happen. He shakes himself; turns back to his work. “He wasn’t much more than a few months old. Tiny. Underfed, mangy. He tried his best to maul me when I got within swiping range.”

He hears the cat hissing, and assumes that Farah has made another attempt to pet the creature.

“I called animal control,” the Detective continues, “but Jeff was busy with a family of racoons, so he told me to handle it myself and bring him to the vet. I went back inside, got a couple of old towels, a carton of half-and-half, a saucer and borrowed a cat carrier from one of the neighbours. And then I camped out by the dumpster for about 4 hours before he was desperate enough to go for the cream.”

“So how’d you end up with him?” Farah asks.

“After a week, it was pretty obvious nobody wanted him. A cat that claws anyone who comes near it isn’t high on the request list.” She chuckles, “And apparently, if you spend long enough waiting for a little monster like him to get close to you, you get kind of attached.”

He tries very hard not to think about why that statement has a swell of what feels like hope blooming in his chest.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place after the end of Book 2.

**_The Warehouse Pool Room, One Week after the Carnival Reopening_ **

Tonight is Nate and Charlotte’s - Adam has allowed himself the indulgence of using her first name in his head, after she requested Unit Bravo use it instead of her title - research night. She has decided to come to the Warehouse at least once a week in order to go through the Agency’s recommended readings for liaisons. The information is more secure here than at her apartment, and Nate has a library full of supplementary materials to clarify the bare-bones information the Agency provides. Nate is still on patrol at the moment but he should be back soon, with Farah scheduled to replace him. 

Adam is rostered off tonight. He would have preferred to be on duty, knowing that Charlotte would be here. He is not avoiding her. He is simply trying to work out if allowing her to slip her hand into his at the carnival was a moment of weakness or… It seemed like a good idea, at the time. It always seems like a good idea, at the time, with her. She is… being around her, it overwhelms his capacity for reason, makes him act on instinct, on impulse. He needs to find a way to be around her without losing himself to it before he is willing to see her again. For tonight, that means avoiding the library. Which is how he has found himself in front of the door to the pool room. To his knowledge, she has never been in there. And Morgan frequently is. He is not opposed to the quiet company or a competitive game to help distract him from Charlotte’s presence.

Except… he pauses with his hand on the doorknob. Except there is more than one heartbeat coming from inside the room. 

“I didn’t hear your car,” Farah says.

Around the clinking of pool balls, there are more than two heartbeats.

“I didn’t drive tonight,” he hears Charlotte reply.

And Adam yanks his hand away from the doorknob like it’s been burned. How is it that even in this, she is managing to interfere with his plans?

“Long walk.” That’s Morgan. So all three of them are in there. He should leave. Go somewhere else until Nate gets back. Except...this had been his intention, and he’s not sure where else to go. He leans against the wall and tries to think of what to do next, distracted by the conversation in the next room.

Distracted by her.

“I came up the river.” Charlotte says. He hears an intake of breath, and she continues before Farah can interrupt, “With a canoe, I didn’t swim.”

He’s not sure how he feels about that, aware as he is that she has a great deal of experience on the water. Still, it is almost dark. And she was alone. He’s sure how he feels about it. He doesn’t like it.

“I was gonna say you look kinda dry.” Farah says, and he hears the clink of the pool balls again, “Why the boat?”

“It seemed like a better option than letting a rabid reporter scavenge around the grounds.”

He should appreciate the lengths she is willing to go to to protect the Agency. And he does, appreciates what it costs her, to keep secrets from the few friends she has when she is so honest by nature. He appreciates it. It is just...difficult, knowing that she might be putting herself in danger to keep their secrets safe.

“What?” Farah. He wonders sometimes if she pretends not to understand, just to get answers out of people.

“Bobby Marks.” Charlotte responds. “The same one who… interrupted, the night we found the sick supernatural. He’s sniffing around again, convinced he’s onto something big.” 

Her words are followed by the sound of pool balls striking each other, and a quiet grumble from her. He’s never seen her play, wonders if she usually does well, and Farah’s questioning is throwing her off her game. Or perhaps she is a novice and could do with some assistance - his mind flashing to an image of her back pressed against his chest, his hands over hers to demonstrate - and he stomps that thought into the ground as she speaks again. “Or he’s trying to bait me into breaking his nose.”

He can hear Farah’s small hum over the sound of the pool balls before she comments, “You don’t like him very much.”

“Not really.” Charlotte sounds as though she is focused on something else. Lining up her next shot, maybe. “You’re going to ask about it aren’t you.”

“Yep.”

She sighs heavily, “Then I’m going to need a drink.”

There is an immediate clinking of glass, followed by the thump of a bottle being placed heavily on a table.

“Tequila?” Charlotte asks, her distaste evident.

“I want to know what it takes to get on your bad side.” Morgan says. Evidently the drink had been her choice. When she speaks again, it is with a smile in her voice, “And it can’t make your pool game any worse.”

Charlotte snorts, and then there is a silence, or at least a lull in the conversation, as she drinks. She shouldn’t be handling a vehicle after drinking, he thinks. It would be...he’s never known her to be irresponsible, or even impulsive. But she has a room here. It’s not as though she can’t stay the night, not as though she hasn’t done it before. He groans internally. If she stays… It will make avoiding her challenging.

“Ugh.” Apparently, she has not enjoyed the tequila. “Hit me again.”

“Your funeral,” Morgan comments.

“If two shots of tequila is all it takes, then I deserve an unmarked grave.”

He immediately tenses, jaw clenched, fists balled. That is… It was a joke. It was in terrible taste, but it was a joke. He should...try to relax. To treat it as such.

“Bobby Marks is a hack.” Charlotte says, and he finds himself agreeing with her. He’s read some of the man’s work, after all. “Unfortunately...he’s also my ex.”

He did not know that. It does not help the process of relaxation.

Morgan makes a sound of disgust. “You can do better.”

Agreed.

“Better than totally sexy?” Farah asks.

“No, Morgan’s right. I can do better.” He is relieved to hear it, tenses again when he realises the implications of that relief, as Charlotte continues, “And so can you, Farah. You’re better off with your hand.”

That… that… It’s just as well he’s already leaning on the wall, because that… His mind is reeling. 

“Wow.”

He isn’t processing Farah’s shock, stuck instead in the spiral that her words had jolted him into. Her and her hand. Is that...does she indulge often? Her and her hand...or...his. The two of them, together, in his room, just down the hall, her guiding his hands over her…

_ Merde _ .

He takes a shaky breath, tries to focus on Morgan’s voice, asking a question, “That why you ditched him?”

It seems to be working, so he takes another deep breath, focuses on Charlotte’s bitter laugh, “No. I could have saved myself the better part of a year and a huge headache if it was.”

Another deep breath. Let the sudden anger towards the reporter wash over him instead. That he could be presented with something so precious and treat her so poorly that she would have to resort to… No. That doesn’t help. Focus on the conversation instead.

“So…?” Farah prompts.

“So, we went to college together.”

“Oooooh, like a rom-com?” Farah’s obsession with pop culture rears its head. He can almost hear Morgan rolling her eyes.

“Insofar as this story takes place at a college, sure,” Charlotte says. “Other than that? Nothing like a rom-com. We had different majors, but we were in some of the same classes. He was attractive and seemed like he gave a shit about me.”

“High standards.”

Morgan is being sardonic, as usual, but he can’t help but agree with her. As standards go, Charlotte’s were alarmingly low. He can’t help but wonder if they’ve changed, what it says about… what the implications would be if they haven’t.

“From what I’ve heard,” Charlotte's voice isn’t any less mocking than Morgan’s had been, “I’m not sure you’re in a position to judge.”

“At least my standards include ‘a decent lay’.”

“Isn’t that your only standard?” Farah butts in.

“And it works just fine.”

“ _ Anyway _ ,” he’s grateful for Charlotte’s redirection, “we ended up living together.”

He’s suddenly less grateful for Charlotte’s redirection.

“And then it all went wrong?” Farah sounds gleeful. He imagines if she’d known that she’d have been hearing this story tonight, she would have brought popcorn first.

“And then it all went wrong,” Charlotte agrees. “I got a call from a professor. She sits me down, and shows me my term paper with a nice big red F on it.” 

His surprise is echoed by Morgan, “Surprised you ever got an F in anything.”

“The one and only time,” Charlotte confirms. “But the professor, she tells me that Mr. Marks came to her and told her the whole story. That I had copied his paper, and she was aware of our  _ relationship _ blah, blah, academic sanctions, blah.”

“Did you?” Farah asks.

“Oh, somebody had definitely copied somebody’s paper, but it wasn’t me. So I stormed out, went home and asked him if it was true.”

“Was it?”

“Every. Damn. Word. The jackass was failing half his classes, and figured he could get ahead by passing off my work as his. Called it ‘ _ winning _ ’. ” She sounds as if she could spit, even all of these years later. “I usually had my stuff done and printed a day in advance, so it wasn’t like it was hard for him to copy it.”   


It’s just as well that he’s not holding anything, otherwise it would be shattered with the way his hands immediately ball into fists. To...use someone... to use  _ her _ like that.    
  
“I told him to get out. He did.” She chuckles, bitterly. “He said we could discuss it when I was being a little more reasonable.”

“Did you?”

“Not really. We had different definitions of reasonable.” 

Evidently, if he felt that betrayal of trust, theft and plagiarism were reasonable actions. Which they are not. To say nothing of destroying another’s reputation. 

“It took me a little while to calm down,” Charlotte says. Under the circumstances, he finds that understandable. “Eventually I called the professor back and apologized for the way I handled it, said the accusation had just shocked me, asked if she would be open to discussing it, given my academic record. She said we’d have to take it to a panel. So I said, ‘do it.’ I got in touch with some professors from classes Bobby wasn’t in, so I could compare the work samples. And I used to handwrite all of my notes, right? Kept everything until the end of the semester, just in case. So all of my research for this paper? It was in my handwriting, matching up point for point with the essay. So I get to the panel, and I just dump item after item of evidence down on the desk.” 

He can hear the smile in her voice, the note of victory. And he recognises his -  _ their _ \- Charlotte in this story now. Methodical. Determined. Taking every advantage and using it against the enemy. Fighting to the bitter end. “I fuckin’ destroyed his story. And embarrassed the shit out of the professor. It was...”

“Glorious?” Farah supplies.

“Absolutely.” She sounds almost lost in the happy reminiscence. “To be able to look across the room and see the expression on his face when he realised that not only was I going to win, but it was going to absolutely destroy his chance at graduating? Best feeling I’ve ever had.” 

It’s… tragic is a little too strong a word, but that this victory is the happiest she’s ever been feels like an injustice. It was a victory, but… she is deserving of so much more. Of everything. 

“Anyway, I called our landlord right after and got the lock changed,” she is still speaking, “it was only my name on the lease and since Bobby never felt the need to sign any kind of contract with me, there was nothing he could do about it. I told his friends he had a week to schedule a pick-up for his stuff, otherwise he could find it on the curb on garbage day.”

“You’re kind of vicious.” Morgan says, “I think I like it.”

“Thanks!” Her voice is coming closer, “And now, I’m going to go relive those glory days by attempting to learn something after having consumed an unfortunate amount of tequila.”

He takes off down the hall before she reaches the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elements of this chapter are lifted from the Unseen Scenes from the Patreon.


	5. Chapter 5

**_The Warehouse Library, Three Weeks after the Carnival Reopening_ **

It is another of Charlotte’s research nights. Adam is standing in front of the library door, working himself up to the possibility of seeing her. It’s interesting how her nights at the Warehouse always seem to be scheduled on the nights that he’s rostered off. And given that he’s responsible for the patrol schedules, it must be whoever is scheduling the research nights who is responsible for that coincidence. Nate has made his opinions on his… infatuation clear, and they would have had to work around Nate’s patrols. But...Adam knows she has access to the patrol schedule. Is it possible...He’s aware that she may have...She has...She is not indifferent to his presence. It could be that she’s scheduling her time in such a way that it would not be unlikely that they would meet.

He’s still standing in front of the door. This is ridiculous. She is a member of the team. They have worked together in the past. They will have to work together again in the future. He cannot be...concerned about being in the same room as her. Nate is there. It will not be like last time. (It would not be so terrible, for it to be like last time). They won’t be alone. He should just go in, just open the door, and walk in. 

He can’t.

“An interesting choice,” he hears Nate comment.

“It was recommended.” Charlotte sounds like she’s only half paying attention - occupied by what she is reading, maybe.

The sound that Nate makes is one that he’s had plenty of time over the centuries to acquaint himself with - it’s the same reaction that he’s had to computers, smartphones and automated parking booths.

“That sounds like disapproval, Professor.” Evidently, Charlotte has heard it enough to be able to identify it as well.

“It wouldn’t have been my first choice.” He knows that’s Nate’s polite way of saying ‘it’s terrible and no one should be reading it.’

He hears Charlotte’s thoughtful hum, the scratch of her pencil across the legal pad that she uses to take notes. “So what would your first choice have been?”

He hears Nate moving from the sofa, the scrape of a ladder being moved across the floor. The book must be quite high, if even Nate needs a ladder for it. He thinks that means it’s one that would be rarely used, according to Nate’s absolutely inexplicable system. Or, considering he does not hear any sound of the ladder being used, it was in the way. Finally he hears a book thumping on the table. Quite a large one, to judge from the way it landed.

There is an extended silence, interrupted only by the sounds of pages turning, and the pencil scratches of Charlotte’s extensive note taking. He could go in now. He could go in, and choose a book, and settle into the silence with them.

He doesn’t.

Eventually, Nate breaks the silence. “I don’t mean to pry...”

“But you’re going to anyway,” she teases. He can picture her, reading glasses on, a book on either side of her legal pad, fingers marking a spot to copy from, not looking up to respond. She would be almost completely absorbed, difficult to distract. 

The room falls silent again. He hears a few more pages turn before Charlotte speaks, “Oh for… put the puppy-dog eyes away and get it out of your system, Nate.” She chuckles before adding, “You’re worse than Farah.”

“I am not.” Nate sputters, indignant.

He absolutely is.

“You absolutely are.” He is startled by how closely her thoughts match his own. “Now out with it.”

“I couldn’t help but notice,” Nate sounds distinctly uncomfortable, ill-at-ease, “that the book that was recommended to you is also the book that is recommended to those who are being counselled on the … transition.”

And that would be why. Adam is aware of Nate’s feelings on their nature, what happened during his own turning.

“I was told that it’s the most comprehensive when it comes to describing the process.” Charlotte’s response isn’t exactly an answer. But then, he supposes that Nate had not really asked a question.

“And you are...researching the process?”

She had been accepting of their existence. More so than most humans who became aware of the supernatural. Maybe it shouldn’t be surprising that she would be researching how they came to be as they are.

“I’m researching the most common supernaturals,” she says. “The most common vampires are human-born. So yes, I am researching the process.”

And that sounds like the thoroughness he’s - they’ve come to expect from her. But he recognizes her tone. It’s the same one she uses when Farah prods a little too insistently for details about her parents. The ones she uses when she doesn’t want to discuss something. 

“Is that...the only reason?”

“Nate…” there is a warning in her voice. He’s never seen her lose her temper. A pointed comment, yes, a conversation ended, absolutely, but he’s never seen her lose control. He wonders what it would take to push her over the edge.

“The Agency will be here.” Nate has apparently understood her tone as well. “We’ll be here.”

He knows what Nate is trying to say: ‘you don’t need to do this’. 

She doesn’t respond.

“You’re not a burden, Charlotte.”

He had thought of her as one, once. A human, inferior, slowing them down and sending them scrambling to track her all over town. 

“I’m a job. And it ties up valuable resources.”

She’s not wrong. She is still human. In spite of her skills, her competence, she is weaker than them. To be turned would be...advantageous. Ignoring the survival rate. And he is very deliberately  _ not _ thinking about the survival rate. 

He hears someone standing, Nate, his footsteps shuffling, the creak of the sofa. He can imagine that Nate has moved to sit next to her, to hold her hand through this. It’s his way to offer comfort like that, soft words and a hand offered. He’s possessed by a sudden wish that it was him with her instead.

“You’re a person,” Nate says.

Charlotte sighs, “And you’re very sweet.” He imagines her reaching over to pat Nate’s hand where it rests over hers. It’s...good that she has Nate to talk to. “But they’re not mutually exclusive. I am a person. I am also a job that requires an entire unit to ensure I don’t become a rechargeable battery pack for a rogue supernatural.”

He tenses. They will -  _ he _ will not allow that to happen. Not so long as he draws breath. And it is chilling to hear her describe it so calmly. As though she doesn’t have any say in whether or not it happens. That is… It doesn’t matter. It  _ will not be allowed to happen _ .

“So you’re considering…”

“I am  _ not _ considering,” she sounds exasperated. Is she pinching the bridge of her nose? He has seen her do that sometimes when frustrated. “Considering would include working out whether or not it’s possible for someone with my mutation to even  _ be _ turned. I’m just researching the mechanics!”

But she has let something slip - that she would try to find out if it was possible before she considered it. He… the turning changes people. He’s not sure how he feels about the idea of her changing. He...likes the way she is now. Whatever else he feels about her, he can at least admit to liking her, as he likes the rest of his team.

“Have you…” Nate hesitates, “tried to see if it’s possible?”

“No.”

“And if it is?” Nate presses, and Adam is impressed that he is trying to continue the conversation. Nate is not overly fond of conflict with people he considers friends. And Charlotte can be stubborn.

“I’m not ready to make that decision.”

He never does go into the library.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes reference to events that happen in two other works - Kiss Me, Kill Me and Temptation. Reading those first aren't necessary, but may provide additional context.

**_Wayhaven Community Park, Late Evening, Four Months After the Detective Broke her ankle_ **

Most nights, a patrol of Wayhaven is little more than a scheduled walk that one is obliged to go on. Other nights, patrolling Wayhaven has a whiff of danger about it, a sense of threat. Those are rare nights. Tonight is one of the former. The most interesting thing Adam has seen so far has been a group of teenagers vaping behind the library. And that was if one significantly stretched the definition of interesting.

He has made it to the park, almost finished his second round around the town, when he catches a scent on the warm spring breeze.

Her scent.

Apparently, Charlotte and Officer Poname have elected to go for a walk through the park after their weekly pint and basket of wings.

He should get back to his patrol. She’s safe. She’s not alone. There is absolutely no reason to linger, no matter how much he might feel compelled to. 

“So, you and Agent du Mortain...” Officer Poname’s voice drifts to him on the wind. And suddenly there might be a reason to linger. He makes his way through the park, quietly, to a place where he can see the two of them sitting on a bench by the edge of the river.

He hears Charlotte sigh. “What about me and Agent du Mortain?”

“Been interior decorating?” He can make out Officer Poname nudging Charlotte with her elbow. And the question is laden with innuendo. He’s not entirely sure why - moving furniture, or repainting, or whatever it is the officer has in mind - is hardly salacious. 

It makes Charlotte’s mumbled, “ _ Christ _ ,” even more inexplicable.

“Glazed the donut?” Officer Poname continues, and he begins to suspect that he’s missing something. “Danced the horizontal tango?”

He is no longer missing something. He is now very aware of what she is insinuating. And of the fact that his ears are burning.

“Tina!” Charlotte sounds scandalized, though whether by the question, or by the fact that her friend is asking her about this in public, he can’t say. Either one would be reasonable, in his opinion.

“ _Charlotte_ , you are _killing_ _me_!” Officer Poname reaches over and grabs Charlotte by both shoulders, giving her a little shake, “Spill! Have you jumped his bones or not?”

“No?” her response is squeaky.

“Oh.” It seems like the officer takes a moment to think the answer over before following up with, “Do you want to?”

He may know the answer to that, if Charlotte’s proposition two weeks ago was anything to go by. Provided she hasn’t changed her mind. And he would very much like to know if she  _ has  _ changed her mind.

“ _ Jesus _ , Tina.”

“Well?!”

“ _ Oh my God _ .” Charlotte sounds horrified, in spite of her laughter. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m amazing.” Tina counters, “Now answer the question.”

_Yes_ , he agrees, fists clenching and unclenching while he waits for Charlotte’s response, _please answer the question_.

He barely hears the mumbled, “Yes.”

But he definitely hears Tina’s screech of, “ _ Then what the hell are you waiting for?!?”  _ They may have heard it in the city.

Even with his enhanced hearing, he can’t quite make out what Charlotte says in reply. But he’s stuck. Any closer, and he risks being seen. Instead, he’s reduced to hoping that Officer Poname repeats whatever was said.

“Have you tried asking?”

That’s less helpful than it could be - asking what? - and Charlotte’s only response is a glare.

“I’m serious!” Officer Poname exclaims.

“So am I.”

“Okay, okay.” The officer seems like she’s trying to placate Charlotte, who is not known for being easily placated, gesturing and quietning her voice. It’s still plenty loud enough for him to hear, but not any other passers by. “Let me see if I’m understanding this right.  _ You _ would very much like to do the do. You don’t know if  _ he _ wants to. And your solution is…” Her voice rises, like a gameshow host presenting the next prize, “to not talk about it ever.”

Well, that does answer the question of whether or not she has changed her mind. And of why she hasn’t addressed it again, if she felt he had rejected her offer. And he hadn’t...not really. Or at least, it wasn’t meant to be understood as a rejection. It just hadn’t been a good time. Not when it either would have been rushed, or left her with less than a full night’s rest for the next work day.

He sees Charlotte run her hands through her hair. “Pretty much?”

And it’s strange. She’s not normally reticent. She certainly hadn’t been when they met - the first words she’d spoken to him had been rather insistent reminders that the investigation and the station were hers.

“Charlotte,” Officer Poname says, laying a hand on her shoulder, “you know I love you like a sister. And  _ I  _ know that you’re a very smart person. But…” He wonders if the pause is for dramatic effect, or to allow the compliments to sink in and soften the blow of whatever is to come. “That is  _ by far _ the  _ dumbest _ thing I have  _ ever _ heard come out of your mouth, and I’ve heard the shit you say when you’re on painkillers.”

Charlotte sinks a little on the bench. “ _ I know. _ ”

“So  _ why _ is this your plan?”

“ _ I don’t know _ .” 

“Charlotte.”

“Tina.”

“ _ Charlotte! _ ”

“Ugh.” She sinks a little further, her head resting on the back of the bench, looking up at the sky. “Because… I have no idea how to have that conversation.”

Had she not had…? It...he knew about the reporter, of course. It had not occurred to him that there might not have been anyone since then, that she might be, not inexperienced, exactly, but surely it would be unusual for someone of her age to have had so few partners? Although, considering he himself had gone the better part of 900 years without one, maybe not so unusual. Or maybe it was her other partners who had initiated that conversation?

“Have you tried Googling it?” Officer Poname teases, “You know, ‘How to have the sex talk with your partner,’ or something?”

He cannot see Charlotte’s expression clearly from where he is, cannot interpret her silence, but the officer’s gleeful cackling does that for him just fine. “Oh my God, you did. You  _ so did _ .”

Charlotte rolls her head to the side, and he can just make out the furrowing of her brow as she looks at her friend. “I thought you were supposed to be helping me, not mocking me.”

“I can do both!”

“I  _ don’t _ see how this is helping.”

“Um, excuse you.” Tina reaches over to poke her in the arm, “Listening  _ is _ helping.”

He just makes out Charlotte’s stifled groan. He sympathises. It’s not unlike talking to Farah.

“And laughing at you makes you feel less embarrassed about it.”

It is, in fact, very much like talking to Farah.

“You know, I’m not sure that it does.”

Silence falls over the pair, and he has wasted enough time. He really should get back to his patrol. 

And then Officer Poname breaks it with, “We should get ice cream.”

“Tina.”

“No, listen,” she says brightly. “We’ll get a boatload of ice cream, and then it’s  _ roleplay time! _ ”

He sees Charlotte pass a hand over her face, “I will pay for a month of sundaes for you if we don’t do the second part.”

\--

He tries several iterations of a similar search to the one Officer Poname suggested when he finishes his patrol. He finds himself sympathising with Charlotte’s obvious frustration. There is a great deal of information on  _ what _ to discuss, and next to nothing on  _ how _ to discuss it.

Which means it will simply...have to be done.

**_The Detective’s Apartment_ ** **,** **_Three Days Later_ **

Unit Bravo was no longer required to provide a twenty-four hour protection detail at the apartment, now that Charlotte’s leg was healed. But he had fallen into the habit of escorting her home, when their schedules allowed, and accepting her invitation to come inside. He never ate with her, but she had started keeping a bottle of wine on hand, and he would have a glass or two to keep her company while she ate. Some nights she would drink as well, if she had had a long day, or if she had the next day off. Then they would sit on the couch and read, or watch a little television, (she favoured documentaries) until her alarm went off and he would leave so that she could rest.

He didn’t notice if she poured herself a glass tonight. He didn’t notice what she had eaten either. Or what they were now watching. In truth he had barely noticed anything from the time he picked her up from the station - too busy running through the myriad possible ways to start the conversation that he very much wanted to have, that they both apparently wanted to have, and didn’t know how to begin.

“Is -” He’s startled out of his thoughts when she breaks the silence. She’s looking at him with some concern. And sitting a little further away than she usually does - “everything all right?”

The question surprises him. Surely he hasn’t said or done anything unusual? He’s barely said or done anything at all. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Her expression doesn’t change. If anything, her worry seems to deepen. “Because you haven’t said anything since you picked me up from the station.”

It sounds like she wants to say ‘because you’re ignoring me.’ And he isn’t, not really. Not the way he would have done before. He’s just trying to work out how to start this conversation with her, and it’s taking a little longer than he expected. But apparently, here is his opportunity.

If he could just work out what to say.

“Ah.” He clears his throat. “I...ah...hm.”

Charlotte looks at him expectantly. Somehow, it’s even harder to think with her bronze eyes piercing into his.

He looks away, towards the television, to escape her gaze. “I was on patrol three nights ago,” he says, eventually.

She waits for him to continue, because in and of itself, that isn’t really an explanation.

“I happened to be...crossing the park.” He sees her stiffen out of the corner of his eye. He always has been impressed with how quickly she can put information together. “At the same time that you and Officer Poname were taking your walk.”

He hears her heart rate increase slightly. “And?”

“And I…”  _ heard your friend mention me _ “may have…”  _ stopped to eavesdrop _ “overheard your conversation.”

“ _ Fuck me, _ ” she breathes. The profanity is barely audible. If he had been human, it probably wouldn’t have been. But it’s unlikely he will ever be presented with a better opening than that.

“I… understand that is the…” he coughs, suppressing a laugh, “gist of what you wanted to discuss.”

“Oh my  _ God _ .” She giggles, and he chances a look at her - expression somewhere between amused and horrified at the joke. “Are you serious?”

He gives her a half-smile, “That is my reputation.”

He hopes she takes him at his word. It … he does want to have this conversation.

“Ok.” Apparently she does, because the smile falls off her face and she tugs the throw blanket off the back of the couch to hold in her lap. Her breathing gets shallow and that increase in her heart rate spikes. And that was...not the reaction he expected.

“Charlotte?”

“I’m fine.” She is toying with the tasseled edge of the blanket, watching it wind between her fingers, picking at the strands.

He cocks an eyebrow at her - she is decidedly not fine. And she’s not a good liar, either.

She looks up when he doesn’t respond. “Incredibly embarrassed is a kind of fine,” she says, and he snorts. Hesitantly she adds, “I’m not...great at this.”

“This?”

“Feelings. Talking about them.” She clarifies, and for a second he wonders if she remembers exactly who it is she is discussing this with. “I...it’s been a while since I had to. And I wasn’t great at it then, either.”

“I can assure you, it’s been longer for me.” And it doesn’t matter if she has or hasn’t been with anyone since that reporter, it has most assuredly been longer for him.

She looks up, her fingers still playing with the blanket’s edge. “How long?”

He could - should - tell her. He should - must be - honest. 

“Adam?”

He also has no idea how she’ll react to the truth. So he directs his words to the coffee table instead of to her face.

“Not since before…” he takes a deep breath, and forces the last three words out, barely above a whisper, “I was turned.”

He should have expected the silence. She thinks things over before she responds. And she knows how long he’s been alive. To process the fact that he hasn’t had a partner in approximately 900 years is … 

“No pressure then,” she says, eventually. He glances up at her, takes in the tight smile, the tension in her hands. It’s meant to be a joke. He thinks. Hopes.

His concern must show on his face. “I...I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean…It’s just… a lot. To process.” She looks down again, fingers tangled in the tassels. “Because eight years is a while.” 

Evidently there  _ hasn’t _ been anyone since the reporter.

She is still talking, “But you haven’t been… with anyone… for thirty times as long as I’ve lived. So...that’s...” She looks up, past him, to the bookshelf behind them. “I have no idea what I’m doing.” she mutters in an aside, and then continues at her previous volume, “I mean… no. That's not… I know…” 

He has never seen her this flustered. He’s never seen her flustered at all before, really. It’s endearing. And reassuring somehow. That he’s not the only one who’s struggling through this. And he would interrupt her, say something to help, if he had any idea what to say. She continues, “I just… have no idea how to have this conversation,” before muttering, “And I’m rambling.” 

She takes a deep breath. “ _ Fuck it _ …” she swears under her breath again, and he watches as she squeezes her eyes shut tight, takes another deep breath, opens her mouth to speak “...” and nothing comes out.

And he thinks he knows what she wants to ask, what she’s working herself up to ask. “Yes.” He looks towards the coffee table, notices two glasses there. Apparently they were both partaking tonight. His cheeks feel very hot. 

“I…” He can see her looking at him out of the corner of his eye, “what?”

“Yes.” He repeats, still determinedly looking away. “I do. Want to. With you.”

“Oh…” she breathes. “Okay.” 

He chances a peek. She looks nervous, rolling her lips together.

“So do I. But… I… guess you heard that already.” She meets his eye briefly, smiles at him, before looking back down at the blanket. “I uh...I know that vampires and humans can… um…” she seems to be looking for the right word, “procreate.”

Well. The unhelpful internet results had indicated that this is something that needs to be discussed. Assuming they had read the same articles.

“Which is something I’d like to avoid,” she continues.

“That does seem… prudent,” he agrees.

“I’m… I may have consulted with Dr. Tuft about it. About the patch that I use. It’s” she raises her hands, uses two fingers from each as quotation marks, “‘as effective for preventing interspecies conception as it is for humans alone’. So.”

“That’s…” very clinical. Reassuring. Incredibly attractive that she had already done the research. “Good.”

“Mhm.”

He feels drained. Exhausted. And like there is entirely too much distance between them. He reaches his hand up, brushes his fingers over her cheek, and she leans into his touch, brings her own hand up and presses it to his wrist, to hold him there. It’s trembling.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

She smiles at him, softly. “Adrenaline will do that.”

He wants - needs - to be closer to her. To comfort, or maybe to be comforted. He needs it. And maybe she does too? He leans in, and she comes up to meet him, her knee brushing against his leg. Her lips are as soft as her smile, her thumb strokes his wrist, and he feels like he’s melting into her. 

Like he belongs with her.


End file.
